


Farrago

by krynon



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alcohol, Domestic, Europe, Hurt/Comfort, Imperialism, Implied Sexual Content, Justin Trudeau - Freeform, Lord Byron - Freeform, M/M, Politics, Snapchat, a bit - Freeform, is discussed, mentions of - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-26
Updated: 2016-03-26
Packaged: 2018-05-29 06:46:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6363658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/krynon/pseuds/krynon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They've known each other a criminally long time. Sometimes it shows. Sometimes it doesn't. </p><p>"At France’s stare, he sighs again, and studies his drink before patting at his pockets. “What about if I buy you a drink?”</p><p>And to be fair to France, England did know his favourites."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Farrago

**Author's Note:**

> “farrago:
> 
> |fəˈrɑːgəʊ|, noun, 1: a confused mixture.”

“Do you think,” says England suddenly, tapping his fingers against the side of his beer, “That one day, humans won’t know who we are?”

 

France purses his lips. “I think,” he says carefully and evenly, “That it’s very early in the night for you to be talking like that. It’s _always_ too early for you to be talking of romantic topics like that, I think”

 

And with that said, he sits back on his stool and taps at his phone.

 

England speaks up suddenly, staring directly at France this time. “Okay,” he says, putting his glass down. It _is_ only around 9:30, hardly late enough for this kind of talk. Though, France supposes that England has probably been drinking since 6, when the meeting ended. Not too early for _England,_ then. “Okay,” he says again. “You ask me, then.”

 

“What?” France blinks.

 

“ _You_ ask _me._ ” He insists. All France does is try to make his confusion plain on his face, so England tuts at him and sighs. “If it’s too early for me, then I’m sure it’s fine for you.”

 

At France’s stare, he sighs again, and studies his drink before patting at his pockets. “What about if I buy you a drink?”

 

And to be fair to France, England _did_ know his favourites.

 

***

 

When England gets back to their table, he’s balancing a new beer against a delicate wine glass in one hand, clutching a wine bottle in the other. It is, to none of France’s surprise, his favourite.

 

“Hold this, will you?” He thrusts the bottle at France, scowling when France raises his eyebrows. His most recent haircut has done nothing to make his brows less severe, which is unfortunate, though admittedly it wasn’t often England actually attempted to hide them these days. He’d looked like he’d replaced his hair with a mop in the late 1970s, and even _that_ had shown his brows.

 

England sets down the glasses and quickly checks his hair in the screen of his phone.

 

“I didn’t think you liked vanity, cher.” He makes a point of flicking his hair. The Great Eyebrows before him scowl. “Why check your hair if you’ll ruin your face with a scowl?”

 

“My face is fine. Shut up.” England finally sits down, huffing slightly. “Speaking of vanity, have you checked your snapchat recently? I’ve 10 from Gilbert in the last hour.”

 

“I’ve blocked him,” France says, nonchalant as possible. It was more trouble than it was worth having Gilbert on snapchat.When England stares at him from over his glass, he shrugs. “He wouldn’t stop, so I removed him. He tried to send selfies in messages, so I blocked him there too. You know the kind of selfies Gilbert sends.”

 

At England’s face, it’s abundantly clear that he _did_ know what kind of selfies Gilbert sent. Dickpics, mostly, which had been appreciated only very briefly before it became clear that they would be coming to his phone every spare second Gilbert had. Which, these days, meant that they were _frequent._

 

“On that note, I’m surprised you bother with it, Angleterre. It’s not your… forte, surely?”

 

England frowns at him.“Excuse _you_ , I’m tech-y!” It comes out rather mangled, and France suspects England agrees. He pulls a face. “Snapchat is hardly the height of technology, France. I can cope with a mobile phone, even _if_ I still type with proper grammar.”

 

France smiles behind his wine. “Still don’t use capital letters correctly though, do you _cher?”_

 

“Fuck off.”England takes a drink. “I use them as well as they need to be used, you cock.”

 

“Anyway,” France says, mouth twisted up despite his will as he twists the stem of his glass. “I will admit that your wine has me convinced. So,” he settles on his stool. “Let me ask you, _mon cher._ Do _you_ think that one day humans will forget who we are?”

 

England takes a long look at France, the type which once upon a time France might have looked away from. After a while, it is instead England that looks away and stares at his glass.

 

“I think we’re both already aware that they will.”

 

France tuts at him, clicking the sound behind his teeth. “Non, _nonsense._ You are thinking romantically again. It is not your concern what will happen after us.”

 

England raises his eyebrows. “Strong words. I thought romance was your _thing._ ”

 

France sips at his wine. “It was not me that created Mr. Byron, cher. Your romance is a very different thing to mine.”

 

“Byron was a special case.” France tuts. “He _was,_ ” insists England, with what France is pleased to recognise as defensiveness. “But that’s not the point. Whether we are tragic heroes aside, I’m asking you a _question._ ”

 

The pub is filled with dull chatter. France sips at his wine. England checks his phone, and France is still a little delighted that England continues to wear gloves, especially with the difficulties they caused for touch-screens. He’s forced to keep them in his pocket most of the time these days, and they look _awful_ and bulgy in his trousers. It’s wonderful.

 

“Did you ever fuck Byron?” France shoots.

 

“Oh, shut _up._ I shan’t buy your wine again, you prick.” When France sips, he raises his glass back, and the mood abruptly shifts back to jovial. “What happened in Mr. Byron’s various summer houses is thoroughly between me and the several other people in them at the time.”

 

France laughs at that, and is faintly pleased to see England raising his eyebrows behind his drink. It was good, sometimes, to be people, rather than nations. And banter aside, it was quite admittedly true that whatever it was that Mr. Byron may or may not have done in his summer houses was between him and the other people in them.

 

Often, France thought it a pity that they’d never met in person. They’d probably have liked each other.

 

 

“Regardless, I stand by what I said,” He says. “It is not my concern whether it will happen or not. Merely that when it does, I will likely be a lot less stressed.”

 

“Fair.” England mumbles. “Still sad though, surely?”

 

“Gilbert’s not sad.” France offers.

 

“Prussia is though.” England retorts.

 

France raises his eyebrows. “Hardly. Do not get snippy with me, cher. I know him better than you. He’s doing well,” He adds, taking another sip.

 

“His snapchat story would suggest differently.”

 

France snorts. “Mon cher, if we were to take snapchat as evidence, yours would suggest the world was taken over by cats. Gilbert is _fine._ ”

 

“But he’s not _Prussia._ ”

 

“Look,” France sighs. He’s having this conversation too often, these days. “Nobody is saying that he _is_ Prussia. Gilbert is Gilbert. He is Germany’s brother, and he has done many bad things.”

 

“So have we all,” mutters England, but France talks over him as if he has not spoken.

 

“And one day you will be Arthur, or whatever name you choose next, and I will be Francis, or whatever name _I_ choose next, and we will still be friends, and we will still have done many bad things.”

 

England takes a drink.

 

France presses, “What is different, mon cher, about that?”

 

“The people?” England says. It’s begrudging though, said behind a glass.

 

“But the people will not care! They will be busy under whatever united nation springs up in our wake. They will not grieve our loss.”

 

“I suppose,” England mumbles.

 

England pours him another glass of wine.

 

***

 

“I didn’t feel guilt for a very long time, you know.” England almost chokes as he says it. “It all rather… hit me at once.”

 

“Are you expecting sympathy?”

 

England snorts. “Sympathy is the _last_ thing I’m deserving of.”

 

“I think,” France says, pulling his legs up on top of England’s, “That perhaps your idea of sympathy is rather different from mine.”

 

England looks at him. They’d only been back at England’s flat 5 minutes. France supposes that even if the conversation _was_ on dark turns tonight, at least he was likely to have sex. There are upsides to everything, as they say.

 

“Are you trying to suggest I shouldn’t feel _guilty?_ ”

 

France tuts. England’s asking him question he’s already asked, which is not only lazy but _obstinate._ They’ve had this conversation a million times before. “Not at all. Just that if there were a time for grand, apologetic gestures, it is not at midnight in your living room. And it is most _certainly_ not with _me._ ”

 

England’s flat is as sparsely decorated as he last saw it, and there’s ample time to check off all of the beige upholstery as England stares pensively at his drink. The walls were beige, the ceiling was beige, the carpets were beige. Clearly the only thing in the room ever used regularly was the sofa they’re sitting on now, brown and _expensive-_ feeling. The seats across from him look equally as expensive, but every bit unused.

 

Really, France thinks, brown was just a kind of very dark beige. Even the _pillows_ were cream-coloured.

 

“Do you think _any_ of us deserve forgiveness?” England mumbles, jolting him somewhat out of his plans to reupholster England’s front room.

 

“I think,” France replies, more gently this time, “That it is not me you should be asking.” There’s a short silence, where he realises that the grandfather clock from England’s house further north wasn’t filling the void, and had presumably been left there when England moved back to London. “Also, I think you are only asking because you have been drinking,” He adds, which is probably true.

 

England seems to consider that for a moment, before sighing and taking another gulp. “Mmh. Anyway. How is Monsieur Hollande?”

 

France almost giggles at the abrupt change of subject. “From forgiveness to _politics?_ ” France smiles, pulling his glass of wine closer to him. “He’s well, and I imagine he’d thank you for asking. So is Ms. Marine, not that anyone _is_ asking these days.”

 

England seems to consider that. “Have you met Trudeau yet?”

 

France taps a finger to his lip. “Canada’s boss. The younger Trudeau? Justin?” At England’s nod, he frowns. “I’m not certain.”

 

“Then you haven’t. I feel like you’ll like him.” England pauses. “Try not to trip him into bed _too_ quickly.”

 

“Handsome?” France asks, failing to stifle a grin.

 

England laughs. “What Trudeau may or may not have done in a summer house-”

 

France cuts him off with a laugh of his own. “That’s _slander,_ cher, you had better hope one of your newspapers does not get hold of it. What they could to your reputation with your summer house stories!”

 

England nudges at his feet. “I’m not sure there’s anything they _won’t_ print, recently. They’ve got their teeth locked in air.”

 

France snorts. “When do they not?”

 

“I’m sure they went through a truthful phase at some point.” He takes a drink, and raises his eyebrows back at France’s smirk through his glass. “Not sure it made for very good reading though.”

 

“I'm not surprised. I'd much rather read about Trudeau’s summer house.”

 

England smiles at him, laughing. “I'm sure you’ll be invited sooner or later. You always are.”

 

And with that, they lapse into silence. It's comfortable, as it goes. The wine is good and England’s lap is warm, and it’s an oddly nostalgic moment. He interrupts England scrolling through his news app quite deliberately, nudging at his shirt with his toes.

 

“Hey. Angleterre, England.”

 

“Mm?” England mumbles, absently. He doesn’t look up from his phone, so France shoves his shirt up with his feet. Instead of the undignified yelp he would have gotten once upon a time, instead England just looks vaguely unimpressed. “What?”

 

“Do you remember when we were young? And sat together?”

 

England snorts. “God, now’s not the time to be nostalgic for _that._ We haven’t fought in _years,_ now.”

 

“That’s not true,” France retorts. And it isn’t. England had punched him at the last EU meeting. It had been very undignified for them both. “And besides, it’s late enough to be romantic now.”

 

“No, it isn’t. It’s only…” He frowns and shucks his sleeve up, glaring at his watch. “Oh. Okay, that’s… fair enough, I suppose.”

 

France tuts, clicking his tongue to the front of his mouth. “Remembering the last time you punched me is hardly romantic, anyway. It wasn’t your most dignified moment.”

 

“You punched me back!”

 

“No, I didn’t.” France sniffs, hiding a smirk. “You simply fell into my fists.”

 

“What, from the position on the floor where we were punching each other?”

 

“...Sure,” France hums.

 

There’s a silence.

 

“...” Arthur coughs. “Y’fancy a shag?”

 

“There are nicer ways you could have put that, darling.” France frowns at him, pushing his feet into England’s thigh. “Try again.”

 

England rolls his eyes. “Would you like to have sex?”

 

France tuts and England audibly groans. “For fuck’s sake,” but he wrenches himself from his seat anyway, kneeling down next to France’s position on the sofa. “Okay.” Suddenly, England is holding his gaze and it’s intense enough that he would almost begin to sweat.

 

“Francis, would you do me the… _great_ honour of letting me fuck you into next Tuesday?” He says. France taps his bottom lip with his finger, and England continues: “Or vice versa. I’m not picky, you know.”

 

“Good,” says France. “Much better.”

 

And with that, England takes his hand, and leads him to the bedroom.

 

***

**Author's Note:**

> if this fic is actually read by a few people, I'll write the sex scene at the end! Leave a comment if you'd like one.


End file.
